Last weekend, January 2026. I just delivered my first session of the year at The Azure and AI Show , a technical presentation on Docker, Inc and containers. On paper, it’s a fresh start, a new year of contributions. But in my mind, a question echoes louder and louder: is it still worth it?
The Invisible Cost of a 45-Minute Session
When you see a speaker on stage for 45 minutes, you only see the tip of the iceberg. What you don’t see are the dozens of hours of preparation: the research, content creation, rehearsals, and adjustments. These are the sleepless nights when I finalize my presentation at the expense of my rest. These are the moments with my family that I sacrifice, even though they are my absolute priority.
For online conferences, I can stay home. But for in-person events, I must add vacation days, travel costs, and sometimes accommodation expenses that the event doesn’t always cover. And all of this on my personal time, without any financial compensation.
Gregor Hohpe , in his article “The Economics of Technical Speaking,”, raises a disturbing question: “Many events spend more money on morning coffee than on the keynote speaker.” A coffee costs $15, multiplied by hundreds of attendees… and the speaker who attracts these participants? Zero dollars.
Passion as the Only Currency
The world of conferences has always been my passion. It’s a hobby, a way to share my knowledge and enrich my sessions by engaging with audience questions. The recognition of efforts, post-presentation discussions, and the exchange of perspectives, that’s where I find my world of passion.
I never thought about financial returns. Sharing and mutual learning were enough for me. Seeing someone in the audience have that “aha!” moment, receiving questions that push me to think differently, and creating connections with other enthusiasts, that was my reward.
But passion, however intense, doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t compensate for lost hours of sleep. It doesn’t replace precious time with my family. And above all, it doesn’t protect against what makes this contribution even more difficult.
The Additional Price of Being a Woman in Tech
There is a dimension of criticism that many women in tech recognize instantly. Our sessions are not evaluated solely on their technical value. They are filtered through perceptions about who we are, whether we belong, and whether we are “legitimate” enough to be heard.
That layer does not exist for everyone, but it shapes every talk we give.
This isn’t paranoia. These are real comments, criticisms that go beyond the professional to touch the personal. A systematic devaluation of what was presented, not on substance, but because it’s me presenting it.
This additional emotional burden adds to everything else. After investing dozens of hours, sacrificing time with my family, cutting back on sleep, I must also absorb attacks that have nothing to do with the quality of my work.
The Question of Relevance
During this past year, and particularly during my recent vacation, I reflected on 2025. I thought about the added value of continuing these contributions in 2026. Do I still have the same passion? The same motivation?
I can share my knowledge differently: blog articles, LinkedIn posts, open-source contributions, and online debates. These formats allow me to control my time, protect my work-life balance, and shield myself from destructive personal criticism.
Gregor Hohpe’s article came at just the right time. It confirms my concerns and validates my questioning. It reminds us of a simple rule: “If someone else makes money in a business arrangement, so should you.” Event organizers make profits. Sponsors pay for visibility. The venue, coffee, logistics, and everything are paid for. Except for the main product: the speakers.
The Paradox of the Free Product
Hohpe raises a fascinating point: in the economics of tech events, who is the product? Attendees pay to see the speakers. Sponsors pay to access the attendees. But the speakers give their content for free, sometimes even paying their own expenses.
This model works as long as large companies employ speakers who see these presentations as a return on branding. Or as long as enthusiasts are willing to sacrifice everything for the pleasure of sharing.
But what happens when passion erodes in the face of reality? When does the personal cost become too high? When you realize that your “economic moat”, all those years of experience, content building, and message refinement, is not reflected in the recognition or compensation you receive?
At the Crossroads
I don’t yet know what my decision will be for the coming year.
What I do know is that I’m probably not alone in asking these questions. How many talented speakers silently stop because the personal cost becomes unsustainable? How many women leave this world after enduring one too many personal attacks?
Perhaps the tech community needs to have an honest conversation about the value it places on those who share their knowledge. Perhaps event organizers need to rethink their economic model. Perhaps we, as speakers, need to better defend the value of our time and expertise.
Or perhaps I simply need to accept that my passion for conferences has run its course, and it’s time to find other ways to contribute that better respect my priorities: my family, my health, and my well-being.
Open Conclusion
This questioning is not a bitter critique, but a necessary reflection. I’ve given a lot to the tech community through my presentations, and I’ve also received much in terms of learning and connections.
But there comes a time when you have to pause and ask: Is this sustainable? Is the current model of tech conferences, which relies largely on the uncompensated generosity of speakers, viable in the long term?
I pose this question not only for myself but for all speakers who find themselves at this same crossroads. Last weekend, January 2026. I just delivered my first session of the year at The Azure and AI Show, a technical presentation on Docker, Inc and containers. On paper, it’s a fresh start, a new year of contributions. But in my mind, a question echoes louder and louder: is it still worth it?
The Invisible Cost of a 45-Minute Session
When you see a speaker on stage for 45 minutes, you only see the tip of the iceberg. What you don’t see are the dozens of hours of preparation: the research, content creation, rehearsals, and adjustments. These are the sleepless nights when I finalize my presentation at the expense of my rest. These are the moments with my family that I sacrifice, even though they are my absolute priority.
For online conferences, I can stay home. But for in-person events, I must add vacation days, travel costs, and sometimes accommodation expenses that the event doesn’t always cover. And all of this on my personal time, without any financial compensation.
Gregor Hohpe , in his article “The Economics of Technical Speaking,”, raises a disturbing question: “Many events spend more money on morning coffee than on the keynote speaker.” A coffee costs $15, multiplied by hundreds of attendees… and the speaker who attracts these participants? Zero dollars.
Passion as the Only Currency
The world of conferences has always been my passion. It’s a hobby, a way to share my knowledge and enrich my sessions by engaging with audience questions. The recognition of efforts, post-presentation discussions, and the exchange of perspectives, that’s where I find my world of passion.
I never thought about financial returns. Sharing and mutual learning were enough for me. Seeing someone in the audience have that “aha!” moment, receiving questions that push me to think differently, and creating connections with other enthusiasts, that was my reward.
But passion, however intense, doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t compensate for lost hours of sleep. It doesn’t replace precious time with my family. And above all, it doesn’t protect against what makes this contribution even more difficult.
The Additional Price of Being a Woman in Tech
There is a dimension of criticism that many women in tech recognize instantly. Our sessions are not evaluated solely on their technical value. They are filtered through perceptions about who we are, whether we belong, and whether we are “legitimate” enough to be heard.
That layer does not exist for everyone, but it shapes every talk we give.
This isn’t paranoia. These are real comments, criticisms that go beyond the professional to touch the personal. A systematic devaluation of what was presented, not on substance, but because it’s me presenting it.
This additional emotional burden adds to everything else. After investing dozens of hours, sacrificing time with my family, cutting back on sleep, I must also absorb attacks that have nothing to do with the quality of my work.
The Question of Relevance
During this past year, and particularly during my recent vacation, I reflected on 2025. I thought about the added value of continuing these contributions in 2026. Do I still have the same passion? The same motivation?
I can share my knowledge differently: blog articles, LinkedIn posts, open-source contributions, and online debates. These formats allow me to control my time, protect my work-life balance, and shield myself from destructive personal criticism.
Gregor Hohpe’s article came at just the right time. It confirms my concerns and validates my questioning. It reminds us of a simple rule: “If someone else makes money in a business arrangement, so should you.” Event organizers make profits. Sponsors pay for visibility. The venue, coffee, logistics, and everything are paid for. Except for the main product: the speakers.
The Paradox of the Free Product
Hohpe raises a fascinating point: in the economics of tech events, who is the product? Attendees pay to see the speakers. Sponsors pay to access the attendees. But the speakers give their content for free, sometimes even paying their own expenses.
This model works as long as large companies employ speakers who see these presentations as a return on branding. Or as long as enthusiasts are willing to sacrifice everything for the pleasure of sharing.
But what happens when passion erodes in the face of reality? When does the personal cost become too high? When you realize that your “economic moat”, all those years of experience, content building, and message refinement, is not reflected in the recognition or compensation you receive?
At the Crossroads
I don’t yet know what my decision will be for the coming year.
What I do know is that I’m probably not alone in asking these questions. How many talented speakers silently stop because the personal cost becomes unsustainable? How many women leave this world after enduring one too many personal attacks?
Perhaps the tech community needs to have an honest conversation about the value it places on those who share their knowledge. Perhaps event organizers need to rethink their economic model. Perhaps we, as speakers, need to better defend the value of our time and expertise.
Or perhaps I simply need to accept that my passion for conferences has run its course, and it’s time to find other ways to contribute that better respect my priorities: my family, my health, and my well-being.
Open Conclusion
This questioning is not a bitter critique, but a necessary reflection. I’ve given a lot to the tech community through my presentations, and I’ve also received much in terms of learning and connections.
But there comes a time when you have to pause and ask: Is this sustainable? Is the current model of tech conferences, which relies largely on the uncompensated generosity of speakers, viable in the long term?
I pose this question not only for myself but for all speakers who find themselves at this same crossroads. Your experiences, your reflections, your solutions—share them. Because together we might find a model that honors both the passion for sharing and the reality of our lives.
In the meantime, I continue to reflect. What about you?
Reference:
Hohpe, Gregor. “The Economics of Technical Speaking.” The Architect Elevator, December 28, 2025. https://architectelevator.com/strategy/economics-technical-speaking/ur experiences, your reflections, your solutions, share them. Because together we might find a model that honors both the passion for sharing and the reality of our lives.
In the meantime, I continue to reflect. What about you?
